


The School of the Swallow

by resbruscato



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-11-14 22:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11217762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resbruscato/pseuds/resbruscato
Summary: After destroying the Wild Hunt, Ciri returned from the portal unscathed. Believed dead by her father, Emhyr var Emreis, Ciri was freed of her destiny of Empress of Nilfgaard and could follow her dream of being a witcheress.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still making my way through the books, and while I try to be as faithful to canon as possible, I'll probably slip here and there. Do point it out on the comments so I can fix it :)
> 
> Work based on both the book series The Witcher (Wiedźmin) by Andrzej Sapkowski and the video game series by CD Projekt Red.

            The path to Kaer Morhen was a difficult one, but Ciri had made it over and over again in her youth and was one of the very few who knew it by heart. It would have been easier to just teleport there, but Ciri needed time to think, to absorb everything that had happened so fast in the past few months. She rode her horse near the mountains, easily spotting the path she had to take. Soon enough the saw The Trail – or The Killer, as the witchers normally called it –, the path where she had trained over and over again in her childhood, mastering every twist and turn. A part of her wanted to leave her horse and run it again, but now wasn’t the time. Gripping the reins a little harder, Ciri continued her way to the gates of Kaer Morhen.

            The fortress was a colder, silent place now. Ciri remembered when she had first arrived, how scared she had been of the witchers, of their monstrous features, and how fast she had grown fond of them. Of Uncle Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert and Coën, how well they had treated her, doing their best to raise the wild little girl that she was, the first and only witcheress out of Kaer Morhen. She tied Meena, her mare, to what was left of the stables, using a nearby bucket to get her water from the hand pump. There was enough grass around for her to eat.

            Looking around, Ciri could still see the aftermath of the battle with the Wild Hunt, the bits and pieces of the castle that had collapsed despite Yennefer’s best efforts to keep the walls standing. The main structure, however, was still there, and Ciri wondered if there would ever be a new witcher there, another child running The Trail, practicing on the windmill, the pendulum or the comb. None of the remaining witchers stayed at Kaer Morhen, but maybe Ciri could restart it all someday. She hadn’t been put through the trials, her Elder Blood allowed her to be just as powerful as any witcher without any of the mutations, but Yennefer knew how the Trial of the Grasses worked, so she could always ask her mother for help.

            She wandered around the castle, visiting the old training grounds, her room, where the door still had the huge stinking rat pelt, her first big hunt, and the memory made her smile. Uncle Vesemir had kept it right where she left it.

            Uncle Vesemir. There was no tomb to visit. Every bit of Vesemir had been burned and there was nothing left for her to mourn. In his honor, she thought, perhaps she really should restart the School of the Wolf. Call the other witchers home and ask the sorceresses for help. The world was still ridden with monsters, the witchers’ job was not done yet. There was much to be done.

            She spent three nights in Kaer Morhen, enough for her and her horse to get some rest. Enough for her to run The Killer and wonder how far she had come, how easy it had been this time. And enough for her to plan her trip out of Kaer Morhen, the route she would take. She had no desire to go anywhere near Emhyr’s empire, which was a hard feat on itself, considering her birth father reigned over half the continent, his conquest stopped only by the fierce dryads of Brokilon and stubbornness of the Temeria resistance. Had seen enough war already, she would rather go straight down South instead of diverging West to Novigrad or Oxenfurt, avoiding lands ridden by war and death caused by humans, by her own blood. If it came to it, she might as well cross to Zerrikania, see what work she could find on the other side of the mountains.

            Traveling by horseback was a choice she made. Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Heiress to the throne of Cintra, to Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig, Princess of Brugge and Duchess of Sodden, Suzerain of Attre and Abb Yarra, carrier of the Elder Blood had no need to travel anywhere on horseback. She must only wish, and her powers would take her anywhere. She could do that now, without the threat of the Wild Hunt on her tail, but that wasn’t a very smart course of action for a witcheress.

            Ciri was trying to build a name for herself as a monster-slayer. So far she was only famous in the few ballads the bard Dandelion had written about Geralt, where she appeared as the Child of Surprise, promised to the infamous Witcher in exchange for the services he offered her parents Duny and Pavetta. But that fame didn't help her at all. She was no child now, and she didn’t need to be known as the Lion Cub of Cintra, but as Ciri, the witcheress, monster-slayer of the School of the Wolf. Geralt, with all his fame, had no trouble finding Witcher jobs that paid well. Everyone wanted to hire the famous White Wolf who had ridden many people and many places of monsters, curses and even common bandits; and despite having had many adventures of her own, some just as incredible as Geralt’s or even more, Ciri was nowhere near as famous as her father.

            Roaming around on horseback allowed her to go to every little town, check the notice boards for any jobs and move on once nobody needed her there. Aside from that, she always called much less attention when she arrived in a town by regular means instead of, well, teleportation. The first stop on her list was Ard Carraigh, down the Gwenllech river. The city was once the capital of Kaedwen, but now it was just one of many big cities of Redania, under the rule of Queen Adda the White, wife of the late King Radovid the Stern, who met his fate at the hands of the sorceress Philippa Eilhart.

            Despite the current weakness of Redania after the death of its King, Ard Carraigh was far enough from the heat of battle that the city was not on high alert all the time, and getting in through the front gates proved to be no challenge. Early in the morning, Ciri rode Meena into the city and went straight to the bulletin board, scanning the notes for witcher’s work. Amongst the threats against a man named Odrin for sleeping with someone’s wife, a woman looking for her stolen goat and other minor affairs, she saw a note about a beast which needed slaying. After grabbing the note from the board, Ciri secured her horse at the stables and set out to find the contractor.


	2. Chapter 2

            Standing tall in a noble part of the city was a stone house built in classical Kaedwenian architecture. Ciri knocked, her witcheress’ medallion around her neck and her two swords – steel and silver – hanging from her back. All that along with her ashen hair, bright eyes, scarred face and attire made her look the part of the capable, full-trained witcher she was.

            A short, bald man opened the door.

            “Good morning,” she greeted. “I’m here about the witcher contract.”

            The man eyed her up and down. “Never heard of a lass witcher… but again, no lad witcher showed up in these parts either,” he mumbled the last part mostly to himself. “Come in.”

            Stepping aside, the man guided Ciri into the house, to a living room. “Sit, the master will be right with you.”

            She preferred to stand as the bald man left the room. It wasn’t about feeling safe, Ciri felt pretty safe anywhere. She was the fastest witcher alive, able to escape any ambush. But despite her gear and the scars to show how seasoned she was, Ciri was still a rather petite woman compared to the muscular, imposing witchers she had met in her life. Standing allowed herself to be bigger, at least in her hirer’s eyes. It helped impose respect, and often allowed her to get a fatter payment.

            In a few minutes, the bald man was back with a woman following suit. Her hair wasn’t done yet, and the thick robe she wore on top of her clothes led Ciri to believe she had just left her bed and had no time to get dressed and do her hair before the witcheress arrived.

            “They let women be witchers now?” She inquired, casting a glance at her servant.

            “They do,” Ciri answered without delay, offering her no further explanation.

            “Well, the swords on your back will have to do.” The woman cleared her throat. “I am Lady Voren An Hegg.”

            “Ciri,” she introduced herself. “Your contract said you needed help with a monster, but you didn’t specify. What happened?”

            “My husband and I run a trading company, but he isn’t the brightest man. He recently bought, without consulting me first, some land with underground caves. It was a bargain, he said, sure he had the upper hand on the deal. I _told_ him to be careful, but did he listen?” She scoffed. “He bought the damn thing before even talking to me, saying we’d be rich, there are rubies down in those caves. Then why would the other man sell it for a bargain?” Huffing, she turned to her bald servant. “I swear, his mother must have dropped him when he was a—“

            “The contract,” Ciri reminded her. “You were telling me about the caves.”

            “Ah, yes. He sent in some workers to build a proper structure so we could start mining the rubies, but they didn’t come back, so he sent a handful of armed guards, only two came back spilling nonsense about a monster. We put up the contract but no witchers came to these parts, so my idiot husband set out to do the work himself with more guards and hasn’t returned.”

            “Where can I find the guards who survived the monster? They might be able to tell me what type of creature it is,” she added.

            “They were injured, so city guards took them to the temple. I’d guess they’re either there or drinking themselves numb of the nightmares in the Ugly Troll Inn.”

            After a couple more niceties Ciri didn’t care about, she left Lady An Hegg to her breakfast and set out to find the injured guardsmen. Knowing men and their coping devices, Ciri headed straight to the tavern.

            The Ugly Troll Inn was no different than most taverns she had been to. The building was mostly wood, and so was the furniture. It smelled like booze and broth, with a faint hint of vomit they tried their best to hide. Spotting the men she wanted was easy: hired swords often wore mismatched armor. Add to that bloodstained bandages from recent wounds and a mug of ale and she soon saw the pair.

            “Good morning, gentlemen,” Ciri sat down in front of them and cut straight to business. “I’ve been hired by Lady An Hegg to deal with the monsters and find her husband, but I need to know what kind of monster attacked you.”

            Ciri was waiting for the comment on her being a woman, and how could she ever kill the monsters they barely managed to escape alive, but the two men were so frightened they didn’t even think about making such remarks.

            “Ugly bastards, the lot!” One of the men started. “With teeth like this!” He slammed his mug down and put both hands in front of his mouth, curling his fingers as if he had claws instead of teeth.

            “Red with blood, those cursed teeth!” The other pitched in. “And red horns, too! Those damned things were spiders the size of a man!”

            The descriptions gave her an idea of what might have attacked them.

            “How many were there?” Ciri asked, and the men spoke at the same time, one interrupting the other.

            “Too many! Six—“

            “No, more ‘round ten!”

            “They get you in the eyes, Sarj? I know what I saw!”

            “You wouldn’t know your own wife from a street dog!”

            Ciri stood up and slammed both hands on the table. “Enough!”

            Half the tavern turned to look at the commotion. There weren’t that many patrons, considering it was early morning, so and even as they went back to their own business, most still kept an eye on the trio.

            “May I inspect your wounds?” She asked them. Distracted from their argument, one of the men pulled away his bandages, showing her the puncture wound. Ciri frowned a little. “It’s getting infected. Go back to the temple or you’ll end up losing that leg,” she warned him. Leaving them to think about their life choices, the witcheress stood up and left the establishment.


	3. Chapter 3

            It was almost noon by the time she reached the cave entrance. It had taken her a couple of hours on horseback to get there, and a while more to gather ingredients, sit by a campfire and prepare some Insectoid Oil for her silver blade.

            Having never been subjected to the Trial of the Grasses or the Trial of the Dreams, she had none of the witchers’ resistance to witcher potions, so drinking a dose of Cat to see in the dark was out of the question, even if she knew how to brew it. Her solution was to keep one eye closed during the last part of her journey, get it accustomed to the dark.

            Ciri knelt down and examined the tracks right outside the entrance; the dirt was still compact, meaning not much time had passed, her guess was an hour tops since a good number of men in heavy armor had gone through there recently considering the number and depth of the footsteps. Her head, still down from examining the footsteps, perked up when the noises reached her ears: screaming, along with skirmish sounds of swords hitting hardened carapaces and the unmistakable gush of venom the kikimore warriors were undoubtedly spitting at their victims. With no time to lose, Ciri ran inside and opened her eye, being able to see better with her already dilated pupil. The other eye would soon get used to the low light as well.

            The screams and the light of the torches guided her right to the group, silver sword already in hand. Seeing a man on the floor closer to her, Ciri already cut down a kikimora warrior.

            “Get your friends and run to the entrance, now!” More men down there meant more of a mess, more people to worry about, and their torches, projecting shadows everywhere weren’t helping at all. An enemy moved, and with it four different shadows moved too, confusing her senses. At least if she fought alone, Ciri only had to worry about saving her own behind, and not all of theirs.

            Spotting Lord An Hegg was easy, he was the one who screamed the most and swung his sword the least, clearly inexperienced in combat. From the corner of her eye she saw a green splash coming her way and teleported just in time to avoid it, appearing right behind the offending warrior and ending it with an expert blow.

            “All of you, out!” Ciri warned again, fending off a good number of kikimore workers at the same time.

            “This is my cave, I won’t let any monster take it!” Lord An Hegg shouted, trying to get up and fight some more, but only managing to slip on a puddle of venom and falling back on his ass. His soldiers, on the other hand, were smarter, and started pulling back out of the cave once they saw the ashen-haired woman clearly had more control over the situation than they did.

            Soon enough there were only Ciri, Lord An Hegg, seven kikimore: three workers and four warriors left. Had she been alone, Ciri could have ended it in a flash because the beasts weren’t smart nor fast enough to keep up with her movements, but since they couldn’t always see her, they would eventually attack the man, and she couldn’t have that.

            Standing like a wall between him and the attackers, she managed to kill one of the warriors and two of the workers and maim the rest, but not without taking a couple of cuts and a shot of caustic venom over her arms, which she used to protect her face. Her sleeves melted away, and some of her skin burned too. Hissing in pain, Ciri blinked through the chamber, slaying the remaining worker and hitting right through the teeth of another warrior, impaling it on her silver sword. With her foot well-positioned on one of the creature’s sharp claws, she tugged to loosen her sword, only to have a sharp scream call her attention back to her companion.

            The remaining kikimore warrior had pinned Lord An Hegg down with one of its claws right through the man’s shoulder. The man could only see the terrible maw opening, ready to chew his face off. And then the creature collapsed on top of him, crushing him with its terrible weight. He felt his ribcage closing as it became harder and harder to breathe... until it wasn’t. There was a sharp pain with a tug, and then the claw wasn’t piercing his body anymore. In front of him stood the young witcheress, wiping the sweat off her brow with the back of her glove, panting a little from the effort of lifting such a heavy creature off the man.

            Grabbing a torch from the floor, Ciri used its light to examine the man’s wound.

            “There’s no poison, that’s good.” She ripped the bottom of the man’s shirt and balled it up, pressing it to his shoulder. “Hold it like that. Can you walk?”

            He nodded in response and the witcheress helped him up.

            “Good. Now go after your soldiers and go back to the city, your wife hired me to get you back home.”

            “You’re not coming along?” He inquired, pressing the now blood-soaked rag to his shoulder.

            She looked at the tunnel leading out of the chamber they were in and grabbed a torch. “This is a kikimore nest. There are more of them.”


	4. Chapter 4

_“Pay attention to your books, girl,” Vesemir told a little girl who wore mismatched clothes that clearly didn’t fit and whose ashen hair looked like it had been cut using a blunt razor. “Get your eyes off the pendulum, you’ll train there in the afternoon. Until lunch, we train with this.”_

_He tapped the big, hard-covered book with the tip of his boot. Ciri sat in front of him, on the ground, drawing bored patterns on the cover while glancing at the training grounds of Kaer Morhen from time to time. Focusing her eyes back on him, she sighed._

_“Fine, but you’re no fun!”_

_“No fun can save your life one day. Now answer me this, what do you do when you find a kikimore nest?”_

_“Prepare Insectoid Oil,” she answered in a bored tone. “And White Honey. The poison is very toxic and White Honey helps clear it.”_

_“And their weakness?” He asked, stroking his mustache._

_“The Igni sign, or any fire in general.”_

_“How do you differentiate between them?”_

_“The workers are smaller and faster, the warriors are bigger, slower and stronger, they spit poison too. And the queen is huge.”_

_“And how do you destroy the nests?”_

_“Grapeshot or any other explosive bombs to collapse the tunnels, and don’t forget to burn the eggs.”_

_Vesemir smiled, leaned over and patted the girl on the back. “Nice work, Ciri.”_

_“Old man, you done down there?”_

_Ciri looked up and saw the upper part of Coën’s body peeking out from one of the keep’s windows. Vesemir followed her gaze and nodded._

_“Come on up, squirt,” he called the girl. “I need your help hunting some big rats.”_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I made some small changes to this chapter after catching up with the part of the book Shaerrawedd is described, nothing major.

            The fire burned bright that night. Ciri had found herself a cozy spot not too far from the road, protected from direct sight by marble ruins of an ancient elven palace. Shaerrawedd, it was called. She could have spent the night in the city, but her time running away from the Wild Hunt got her unaccustomed to being surrounded by people, and she found solace in her solitude from time to time. Being in the wild, under the stars, finally free of her trackers was an incredible feeling she liked to enjoy.

            Slow and careful, the witcheress untied the knots that kept her shirt together and pulled it over her head. Her arms, covered in bandages now pink with blood, needed to be tended to. Slow movements undid her bandages, hands doing their best to remain firm as the pain shot through her, her arms still badly injured from the fight with the kikimores.

            Ciri had gone deeper into the caves and fought a kikimore queen by herself. There were eggs all around them, and she was glad she took a torch in there, because once the queen was dealt with, she had used a grapeshot bomb to collapse the beasts’ tunnels and the fire to burn away the eggs, using her teleportation abilities to get out quickly and avoid suffocating to death. By the time she got outside, there was no sign of the others, which was good. It meant they went back to the city.

            She didn’t wait to see it, but the fire would die out soon enough. She just patched herself up quickly and efficiently, adrenaline still keeping her from being in too much pain, and got back on her horse to claim her reward.

            Lady An Hegg had been very grateful with her – and angry with her husband –, and paid Ciri 400 Crowns for her hard work. Poor Lord An Hegg had looked more scared of his wife than he had been of the monsters attacking him in that cave, but he seemed to be glad the monster nest was gone and he would finally be able to mine his rubies.

            Pain thundered through her arms again as she pulled out the last bit of bandages and started spreading a healing concoction on her injured skin. Feeling her blood pumping in her ears, Ciri wished she were a full-fledged witcheress, able to just drink a Swallow potion and heal faster. To distract herself, her eyes wandered to what remained of the ruins and she spotted an engraving on the stone. Pulling herself up, Cirilla noticed it was the image of an elven woman.

            Geralt had told her the story of that place: long ago, a fierce elf called Aelirenn had led many young elves in a battle against the humans for their freedom. They lost and many perished, but she remains a symbol of heroism amongst the Scoia’tael. She died with her peers, but the image of the White Rose of Shaerrawedd remains immortalized on the walls of their old palace. At the heart of the ruins, Aelirenn’s flowers remain untouched, surviving throughout eternity against all odds.

 _Like me_ , she thought. _Like the blood of Lara Dorren, the Elder Blood, surviving through my ancestors, through my mother, through me. Elven blood that runs through my veins, magical blood that was supposed to save the elves._ It was ironic, thinking all that and yet standing on an elven ruin, when her lineage clearly failed in saving the elves from annihilation. There were still elves around, mostly living hidden away in forests and attacking merchants by the roads; the squirrels, or Scoia’tael. Some elves managed to live in the cities, but many burned to death after the purge of the Eternal Fire. _How awful,_ Ciri’s eyes were still examining the image of Aelirenn, _that here I am. A human princess carrying the blood of elves, a witcher, but not a mutant, working for the humans who despise or fear most of the people I care about. Witchers, sorceresses, non-humans._ But she could still change it. Geralt, Triss, Yennefer, they all had helped shape nations, they had saved whoever needed saving, and if there was still peace in parts of the world, they were responsible for some of it. She could hear Geralt's voice echoing in her head.  _Do you understand what this neutrality is, which stirs you so? To be neutral does not mean to be indifferent or insensitive. You don't have to kill your feelings. It's enough to kill hatred within yourself. Do you understand?_   She understood back then, and still remembered it now. Ciri too could make a difference, she too could help save—

            Meena’s snorting brought her back to reality. She smiled, her arms feeling numb now, and walked to her mare, gently brushing her mane with her fingers. “Good girl,” she whispered. “Good girl.”

            In a bed made of moss and leaves, Ciri slept safe and sound as if she had the softer mattress in the world. And if she didn’t know any better, the next morning the witcheress could have sworn Aelirenn stole the wind’s voice that night to sing her a lullaby in Elder Speech and put her to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

            Curiosity almost drove her to Dol Blathanna, the last standing Kingdom of Elves. Things must have changed for them after the war, without Radovid to continue the slaughter on non-humans. Perhaps Dol Blathanna was now more stable and planned to expand their territory, reclaiming what was once elven land. Or perhaps they were finally living in peace, without the fear of persecution behind the great mountain chain that protected them from human reach. She considered if they would have work for a witcher… but elves are usually both proud and capable of dealing with their own problems and, unlike humans, they don’t disturb nature, resulting in nature not disturbing them back either.

            In order to set foot in their territory, she would need permission. Most humans were not allowed to visit such lands, and would be taken down by a fast and precise arrow or removed on sight, but Ciri knew her case was different. The ruler of Dol Blathanna, Enid an Gleanna, also known as Francesca Findabair, was a sorceress of the Lodge. Ciri had met her in person years before, when Francesca and other sorceresses tried to manipulate her into a wedding she had no interest in.

            Aside from that, she knew Francesca respected her for many reasons, none of which she liked very much: for starters, she was Emhyr var Emreis’s daughter, heir to the throne of Nilfgaard, to whom Francesca owned her position; secondly, she was also daughter of Yennefer, a very powerful and vindictive sorceress who Francesca respected. She wouldn’t want to cross Yennefer by mistreating Ciri, even if Francesca herself was a more powerful sorceress. Even without all those connections, Ciri possessed the Elder Blood running through her veins, and Francesca was smart enough to respect that power.

            Her eyes stared at the Blue Mountains that hid this whole elven civilization from the rest of the world. Their rituals and secrets, just now starting to rebuild their lives with some more security. The last thing they needed was a nosy human meddling around their business out of sheer curiosity. Keeping in mind the idea to go back to Dol Blathanna eventually, Ciri turned south, pointing Meena to Vengerberg.


	7. Chapter 7

            The city walls were high in the distance. They had been built up again after the Invasion of Dol Angra, the stone was fairly new and high-quality, paid for the wealthy families of Vengerberg. Formerly a center of commerce between kingdoms, the city was ransacked during the war and many people fled, but with the retreat of Emhyr’s armies and with the end of the war with Nilfgaard, life slowly seeped back into the town of Vengerberg, which was slowly rising back to its former glory.

            In the light of day, the streets were filled with people dressed in colorful fabrics, people running up and down carrying bags, selling and trading goods. The commercial district was very fancy, all the buildings carrying a refined touch in their architecture with many sharp edges and darker colors. There were also common carts selling all sorts of things on the streets, from books to food. It was a very organized city, with different districts expertly separated and distributed around the city so it would all be balanced. The commercial district was located near the trade gate, where merchandize came from. No one lived there, people’s homes were located in the housing district. The old castle could be seen from any point in the city, resisting tall even after the ransacking of Vengerberg. With no royal family to reside in it since the death of Prince Stennis left Aedirn with no heir, the castle was slowly being turned into a cultural center opened to the people: a mix of library and museum, with its great hall being used to host dinners during city festivals.

            Being the hometown of her adoptive mother, Ciri would have a roof over her head to stay there indefinitely. Finding the house of the famous sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg was not difficult; it was in fact a touristic attraction in the city. People stopped in front of it to wonder about whatever was inside, what magical wonders the sorceress kept inside her home. Of course, Yennefer’s store and house were protected by magical spells, but Ciri was sure no harm would come to her. Her mother would never.

            The secret with Yennefer’s magic was that there was never anything obvious, so Cirilla was sure when she saw the front door that it was the last place you should use to go in through. No door or window in the house would open as it should, all boobytrapped with magic spells, her medallion humming like crazy around her neck every step she took around the enchanted building, one of her hands holding Meena’s reins.

            But then, around the back, the wolf head calmed down, just a light vibration. The witcheress tied Meena to a nearby post and ran her gloved hands over the wall, feeling the texture, and when she touched a particular spot, her medallion vibrated so fast she thought it might fly off her neck.

            _An illusion,_ she thought, _covering the real entrance. But how do I go through?_ Cirilla sighed, wishing she had a magical device such as the Eye of Nehaleni, anything that could dispel magic. Forcing her way in wasn’t an option, unless… That was Yennefer’s house. If there were magical countermeasures, Yen probably also put exceptions in place. And out of all the people in the world who she would trust to enter her house, Ciri was lucky to count herself among them. Closing her eyes and hoping for the best with a deep breath, she placed a second hand on the wall and pushed.

            There were strange, seemingly opposite sensations at the same time and what she first thought was a wet sensation was actually a dry, warm feeling, like being involved in a big gel bubble. When she came to, Ciri was standing in the middle of a dim-lit living room, surrounded by high-end furniture made of black wood with purple velvet, mostly. Rugs, paintings, and a couple of mementos decorated the place, everything well-thought and clearly hand-picked by Yennefer. Minding her steps, Ciri walked around the house to inspect it. From time to time her medallion hummed, but all the magical objects Yennefer kept in the house were safely tucked away behind glass displays, and she was sure it was no ordinary glass. Ciri was willing to guess only magic could breach it.

            There were all sorts of things decorating the rooms: daggers with interesting engraving, strange shapes, amulets made out of clay – or something similar to it –, others made out of bones. Sometimes, she couldn’t figure out if something was fur or human hair.

            The entirety of the first floor seemed to be made by hand, already planning all the furniture and objects that would one day fit inside it. To the left of the main living room Ciri spotted the stairs leading to the second floor, and as she climbed them, Ciri wondered where the entrance to the basement was. Actually, there was no indication whatsoever that Yennefer had a basement in her house, but Ciri was willing to bet she did. It would be the safest place to hide in case of emergency, and a hidden place to keep the most dangerous magical artifacts. She was sure there was a hidden entrance somewhere, but that concerned Yennefer and Yennefer only, and Ciri wouldn’t meddle.

            Upstairs there were only bedrooms, bathrooms and Yen’s library. Filled with books in languages Ciri had no hope of ever reading despite her noble birth and schooling, and all the other knowledge she acquired from every sorceress or witcher that was her master. Cirilla would need another lifetime to have as much knowledge as her mother did. Taking a step inside, she stopped short of the carpet, looking down at her own boots. The mud on them was dry, but she wouldn’t risk spoiling Yennefer’s beautiful rug, so Ciri stepped out of them and walked barefoot on the soft, beautiful rug. Her fingers, also freed from her gloves, touched the exposed spine of the books as she read the titles, one by one… and along with a smile, a warm feeling filled her up.

            “She read this one to me when I was little,” she muttered to herself, pulling it out of the shelf and sitting down on an enormous, extremely comfortable armchair, crisscrossing her legs and placing the book between them.

            She read quietly, finger running under the words and smile still on her face, every word bringing back memories of herself, head resting on her mother’s lap while Yennefer sat comfortably on a comfortable chaise longue that didn’t go at all with the rest of the furniture. She had bought it off a fancy vendor in the city they were at and made Geralt carry it all the way to the inn.

            _“There are chairs back at the inn, Yen,”_ he had said, little Ciri following them close, hugging two pillows to help Geralt out.

            _“It is outrageous that you, or anyone for that matter, would call those hideous things ‘chair’. It’s a log with a handful of twigs and a pelt.”_

 _“It’s better than the chairs in Kaer Morhen,”_ Ciri had pointed out, trying to say it wasn’t so bad, but her comment only got Yennefer staring daggers at Geralt before crouching down in front of her.

            _“Kaer Morhen is no paragon of comfort, Ciri.”_ Then, reaching up, she had pushed a strand of ashen hair back behind her ears before standing back up and urging Geralt to hurry for she had much to do that afternoon and the chair must be in place.

            In the end, Ciri couldn’t remember what was so important that afternoon, all her memories were about the night. While Geralt had sat by the fire to sharpen his swords, she had settled comfortably in Yennefer’s lap to listen to the story of that book she now held in much bigger hands than before. As the words left her lips, her mind went back in time to that night.

            _“Many years ago,” Yennefer started, wearing a silken black robe over her white chemise. “A princess, no bigger than you, lived in a big, wealthy castle.”_

_Ciri twisted her nose at that._

_“I don’t wanna hear any princess stories, princesses are boring! I want the ones with the knights and the witchers and the sorceresses! Like Dandelion’s ballads!”_

_Geralt felt the icy stare without even looking up from what he was doing. He knew very well what Yennefer thought of his friend, and knew she disapproved of most of his songs._

_“One must know all types of stories,” Yennefer went on. “About knights and witchers and sorceresses, yes, but also about princesses such as yourself. It’s important to read stories where we can see ourselves in those adventures.”_

_“I am NOT a princess!” She sat up, stubbornly crossing her eyes. “I’m a witcher!”_

_“In training,” Geralt added, now sitting sideways so he could look at them from time to time._

_“Why not both?” Yennefer insisted. “Nothing stops you from being a witcher princess.” That seemed to settle Ciri’s spirits for a bit, and with a small ‘huh’, she rested back down on her mother’s lap._

_“As I was saying,” Yennefer continued the story. “The princess lived in a big, wealthy castle. The kingdom had peace, and so the princess was free to both tend to her royal duties and do what she liked the most: sneak out of the castle after everyone had gone to sleep, dress up in her hunting leathers and go exploring. She had many friends in the village under the castle, and they would go out together in many adventures.”_

_“Did they hunt rats in the sewers?” She asked, eyes darting up to Yennefer._

_“Not quite, but they did hunt rats in the fields.” The girl seemed satisfied by that. With one hand on her book, the other got lost in the child’s hair, stroking it gently. That usually put Ciri right to sleep, but the story was beginning to sound interesting, so she was still wide awake. “And while hunting rats, they happened upon a cave. There, they were surprised to find four more children, who apparently lived there, and from that day on, the princess and her friends would always go over to the cave and play with their new acquaintances.”_

_She paused. Geralt put his swords away and changed out of his witcher armor, which distracted Yennefer for a moment or two. Ciri, unaware of what was going on, had her eyes on her mother still. “What happens next?” She asked, bringing Yennefer back to the moment._

_“Yes,” her eyes went back to the book. “They played with their friends every night, and then went back home. One evening, when they got near the cave, they didn’t hear the usual chatter of the children, instead, there were more voices, and thicker, too. Approaching slowly, they saw their friends were nowhere to be seen, and instead the cave had been taken by guards wearing the princess’ family crest. Royal guards, using the cave to store goods.”_

_“What happened to the children? What did the princess do?” Ciri was curious, eyes big with expectation._

_“The princess did the only thing she could: she went back home, intending on asking her parents about the children. However, there was a problem. Can you imagine what that was?”_

_She thought for a moment, then shook her head._

_“Remember when you went fishing by yourself and found a drowners nest?” Geralt asked, sitting on the floor right in front of the chair. Yennefer moved her feet to his lap and without an exchange of words, his hands found her skin and started the massage he knew she wanted. “And you ran back to the castle, but didn’t tell us about the nest for a good while?”_

_“I remember,” Ciri looked a bit embarrassed. “Because I didn’t want you to be mad I—Oh!” She realized what they both meant. “She couldn’t tell her parents because she was sneaking out!”_

_“Exactly.” Yennefer answered with a smile, and Geralt wasn’t sure if it was because of the massage, because of his participation in the storytelling moment, because Ciri figured that out or a mix of all those three things. “While she considered the possibility of admitting her mischief, the castle was attacked. Five golden dragons appeared out of nowhere and spat fire all over the castle, burning the banners and the people below. The soldiers got their weapons, ready to fight, and the royal family told the princess to hide. But she was smarter than that, she had heard many stories about dragons, and knew they were smart creatures. Instead of hiding, she ran out there, waving a white cloth of surrender and begging the dragons to stop. The biggest one moved lower down, right in front of the princess, and everyone held their breaths, thinking he would burn her alive. The guards threw their spears at the dragon, but they broke as they hit the scales.”_

_Ciri gasped, covering her mouth with a hand._

_“The princess spoke: ‘Please, o mighty dragon, do not harm my people. I know you are peaceful and don’t attack without provocation, and I apologize for whatever it was we did.’ All the dragons came closer, and as golden dragons do, shifted their form, turning into humans. The smaller dragons were the children she had made friends with in the cave, and the big dragon was a tall woman with long hair, red like fire, and eyes yellow as gold. ‘You have showed friendship to us, little one,’ the dragon mother spoke. ‘And more character than any of your people, who have stolen our home. We shall leave par your request, but if your people ever crosses us again, we shall show no mercy.’ The princess dropped the white banner and her friends, the four dragonlings, hugged her tight before turning back to their beastly shapes and flying away. The dragon mother turned her back to her, ready to shift too, but the princess stopped her. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘take me with you. I was not born to be a princess, but an adventurer! I want to see the world!’ The dragon mother looked over her shoulder and smiled. “It is not the time yet, little one. Perhaps one day.’ And without another word, she took flight.”_

_Yennefer fell silent, and Ciri looked at her, clearly expecting more. “It can’t end like that!” She exclaimed, making her mother smile._

_“Indeed,” Yennefer said. “It doesn’t. But I want to know how you would finish the story.”_

            It would be easy for Ciri to just turn the page and see how it ended. What Yennefer didn’t tell her all those years ago, instead, she remembered her own version of the ending, of how little Ciri said the dragons came back for the princess years later, when she was an adult with a lot of sword training to protect herself. And they took her to the city of dragons, where she lived happily ever after, going on adventures with her friends until the end of her days.

            Closing the book, Ciri put it right back where she found it and grabbed her boots from the floor. The long time riding her horse, sleeping on the floor, and now this little trip to the past got her yearning for a nice, soft bed. She dropped her boots again right at the door to a bedroom, lips curling upwards in amusement when she saw a stuffed unicorn in a corner of the room. Yennefer was certainly… peculiar with her choice of furniture.

            Ciri dropped her bag and stripped down to her underwear, happily flopping down on Yennefer’s bed. In mere moments, surrounded by the plush pillows and warm sheets, she was falling asleep to the scent of lilacs and gooseberries.


	8. Chapter 8

            Ciri wasn’t sure if Yennefer paid someone to keep the house stocked or if she did it by magic, but the young witcheress took a hot bath and filled her belly with high quality cheese, bread, fresh fruit and wine. The house was so comfortable and well-equipped she decided to stay, leaving only to feed and brush her mare a few times a day. It took a little while, but all the comfort started to feel a tad too boring. Ciri had never been one to stay at the same place for long, so maybe some air would do her good.

            Borrowing clothes from Yennefer proved to be a challenge: her mother only owned very expensive things, and Ciri didn’t want to accidentally get mud on a pair of five thousand Florens pants. In the end, she found a basic white shirt and a pair of riding pants, which she thought might be cheaper than anything else made of whatever expensive fabrics Yennefer liked to wear. With her coin purse and a dagger tied to her waist, she left the house to explore the city in search of some action.

            The sky was a shiny blue, the sun was up and there weren’t many clouds in the sky. As she roamed the streets, Ciri admired the rebuilding architecture with traces of both old and new styles. Small commerce booming on the streets, with people yelling about what they were selling and how much they were charging, many welcoming people to bargain. She came out of a good deal with two shiny apples and three carrots, these last ones for Meena.

            Taking in the city, Ciri spent her time watching the citizens: women running around to prepare meals for the family or take advantage of the weather to dry their clothes. Men and women working outside, carrying boxes and goods up and down to and from their stores, and children playing in the mud remaining from some of the previous rainy days.

            Deep dents from carriages shaped the mud, which quickly lost its definition by the splashes made by the children, who kicked a ball back and forth. Her eyes scanned the children: mostly skinny, wearing raggedy clothes – any lordling would not be at home studying and not playing ball and getting mud on their stiff clothes on the streets – and with uneven hairstyles, they reminded Ciri of herself soon after she escaped the Massacre of Cintra. But they were happy, unlike her at the time. They didn’t need to be taken in by any family, they still had theirs, and no witcher with white hair and yellow eyes was coming for them. They weren’t children of destiny. They were just… children. She had been too, but a child touched by destiny, promised to someone in an act of love. She wasn’t going to take any of them to Kaer Morhen, it wasn’t right. Maybe one day, she would have her own child surprise and the old Witcher Fortress would boom again with childish laughter and rat pelts hanging from doors.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! I hope you enjoy this one :) I have no beta, if you find any mistakes, let me know in the comments and I'll fix it!

            There were still no songs about Ciri the Witcher, as far as she knew. Perhaps Dandelion was sitting in a secret room in an inn somewhere, hidden away from his latest conquest’s father or betrothed, composing Ciri’s song on his lute. There were a few songs about her, the Lion Cub of Cintra, as they had called her long ago, and her ties to the witcher Geralt and the sorceress Yennefer, but none told the tales of monster slaying.

            With her hands flat against the double doors, Ciri pushed them open and walked in, satisfied when no one spared her a second look. Some sitting closer to the door looked back to see who was walking in, but turned their attention back to the bard singing up front. Ciri could understand why. Not only did she have a wonderful voice and played the lute like an angel, the woman was stunning. Her dark brown hair fell in curls over her shoulders, and despite the deep brown eyes she sported, Ciri’s gaze was drawn to the beautiful shape of her lips, moving swiftly with the songs. Everyone seemed to be bewitched by her, watching the presentation with nothing but bliss in their eyes, Ciri included. As the bard played, her eyes sometimes met the crowd, and Ciri was sure the woman held her gaze for a second longer than any of the others, making her chest warmer and the witcheress squirm in her chair a little.

            The performance was over faster than she would have wanted, and a waitress went up to the front where the bard was organizing her things to leave.

            “Dea the Bard will be here again tomorrow, one week only.”

            “Thank you all for coming,” Dea spoke up, curtseying and taking her leave. Ciri looked at her, then at the half-full bottle of wine she had on her table, then back at Dea. Getting up, Cirilla snatched the cork and put it back on the bottle, leaving some coins on the table and walking out of the tavern. Being a witcheress, Ciri always had at least a faint idea of the buildings she was walking into before actually going inside, and with the tavern it was no different. She presumed Dea was taking the rear exit so she could walk around the building and climb the stairs on the side, to the second floor, where the rooms were. The only access was through those stairs. Ciri figured, being faster, she could make it up there and wait for her by the stairs to have a moment alone to compliment her on her singing and ask if perhaps she wanted to finish that bottle together.

            Rushing outside, she took a quick turn and climbed the outside of the stairs’ structure, making it up way faster than by using the steps. She sat up there on the railing, swaying her legs as she waited with the bottle in hand.

            Her idea, however, wasn’t very original. As Dea made it to the stairs and touched the railing to go up, three men were following in her step, clearly drunk.

            “Come on, beautiful, one more song,” one of them slurred, and Ciri could see Dea was clearly uncomfortable. The witcheress put the wine bottle down.

            “Gimme a chance and I’ll make you sing good,” the other added, and his friends laughed.

            Ciri’s sharp eye noticed what the drunk men could not: Dea, turning to face them, was reaching under her cape for something.

            “Come now, gentlemen, that’s not how you talk to a lady,” she spoke calmly, watching them. Giving them a chance.

            “You’re no lady,” another one spat. “Err’yone knows all bard women are jus’ whores in disguise.”

            And with that, he tried to grab her. Dea pulled a small club from under her cloak and ducked, hitting her first attacker with it right between the legs. The man fell to his knees and soon his face hit the ground as he clutched his genitals.

            “Fucking bitch!” One of the other shouted, and they both moved to attack her.

            Ciri dangled from the balcony, still unnoticed by any of the people involved in the fight, and stayed quietly behind them, perched on railing of the first flight of stairs. She could interfere, save the day, get it over with in a second, but Dea didn’t need her too: Ciri knew a fighter when she saw one, and even if the bard wasn’t a pro, that wasn’t her first rodeo either. Her adversaries, drunk as they were, were no match for the small bard and her club, and soon enough she had another one down.

            As she turned to take on the last man, the first one, recovering from the hit to his nether regions, pulled a knife. There was no way Dea would be able to notice and turn in time to react, not with regular human reflexes.  Ciri pulled her dagger out and threw it, stabbing through the man’s hand with it. He dropped his own weapon, screaming and holding his bloodied hand.

            The three men and Dea were disoriented for a moment, unsure of where the dagger had come from, until Ciri jumped down from her hiding spot, pulling the dagger out of the man’s hand and cleaning it on the dirty rags he wore for clothing.

            “Three against one is not nice,” she told them, putting her dagger back in her belt and crossing her arms.

            Gathering themselves up with some difficulty, the men looked guarded. Women didn’t normally sport the amount and shape of scars Ciri had on her face.

            “And who the fuck are you?!”

            “I’m a witcher.”

            “Bullshit!” One of them spat on the floor. “They don’t make witcher lasses, you don’t got the mutie eyes and you don’t have two swords. You don’t even have one sword!”

 _Right_ , she thought, _the swords._ Ciri had left them at home, not wanting to walk around a fairly safe town carrying two heavy weapons on her back for no reason other than to attract strange looks. Pulling her dagger out again, Ciri twirled it in her hand.

            “If you don’t believe me, you can try me,” and then, just to scare them, she teleported out from behind Dea, where she stood, appearing right next to them. “But I’d advise against it.”

            Everyone, including Dea, was startled by it. One of the men tripped, and his friends rushed to pick him up.

            “I’m out,” one of them said, almost crying. “She ain’t worth it,” and he stumbled off, the other two on his heel.

            Ciri watched them go, arms crossed and a small, amused smile on her face.

            “That was… wow.” Dea’s voice brought Ciri’s attention back to her. “Incredible. And a little scary,” she admitted.

            “Sorry,” Ciri put her weapon away, scratching the back of her head a little awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to startle you, or get involved. I saw you could handle yourself, but then that one came from the back…”

            “No, I’m glad you stepped in,” Dea smiled, but then raised an eyebrow, amusement clear on her face. “But if you didn’t mean to scare me or get involved… what were you doing out here? I saw you back inside.”

            “I was watching you sing in there, it was beautiful, and, uh,” Ciri started, unsure where to go from there. Before she could think of anything else to say, the bard’s quick wit kicked in.

            “So you were waiting for me out here to tell me that? I hope you didn’t follow me out here like those creeps,” she sounded a little bit amused, clearly joking, but the tone was lost on Ciri.

            “No, of course not,” the witcheress was quick to add. “I would never do… that.”

            “Then where are my flowers? Did you write me a poem?” Dea teased her a little bit more and started walking up the stairs. “My admirers always have presents for me.”

            Since Dea didn’t say anything against it, Ciri followed her up to continue the conversation. She had something of hers upstairs too anyway. “No flowers or poems, I’m afraid. I’m not really an artist,” she smiled a little, and as they walked past her wine, Ciri grabbed the bottle. “But I still had half a bottle of wine by the time you finished your presentation, I thought maybe I could share it with you. As a thanks for such a wonderful show.”

            “You’re telling me,” Dea looked a bit surprised, now standing in front of her door. “You did all that fighting with half a bottle of wine in you?” It was no easy prowess, to move as swiftly as Ciri did with all that alcohol in her. She whistled, turning around and eyeing the witcheress up and down, taking in the sight of her, eyes resting on the bottle for just a moment because clearly there was more to see. “And that’s no grape juice either.”

            There was a sound of wood and cloth hitting something hard, and Ciri knew the lute tied to her back must have touched the wooden surface behind her as Dea leaned against the door. Ciri stood a whole head taller than the bard, but Dea didn’t seem to be intimidated by it. Dea’s nimble fingers touched the delicate fabric of Ciri’s – Yennefer’s – shirt, running down her sleeve, to her wrist, until she took the bottle of wine from Ciri’s hand. Examining the label in more detail, she smirked.

            “You must have _really_ enjoyed my songs.” Dea opened the door with her other hand, walking backwards into the room.

            “Oh yes,” Ciri followed her with slow, sure steps, and a smirk quirking up to the left. “The songs. Of course.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attention! This chapter displays explicit sexual content (18+). If you are uncomfortable with it, you may skip it altogether, or read only the first paragraph, and then skip to the last one; it will not affect the story in any way.

            The now empty bottle of wine rested abandoned by the creaking bed. Between glasses, Dea had asked Ciri an infinity of questions, wanting to know more about the first and only woman witcher she had ever seen throughout her travels. The stories before her time as a witcheress were told by Dandelion, but ever since she started on the Path, Ciri hadn’t seen him. Dea listened attentively, quill and paper in hand to write down any ideas for a song she might be coming up with. As Ciri spoke, the wine bottle was growing gradually emptier, and Dea ate up each and every word until, with enough wine in her, she made it clear it was time she ate something else entirely.

            Clear eyes met the ceiling as Ciri’s body shook for what she counted was the third time in a row, without even a few minutes of rest. Dea had a routine: she worked Ciri to edge with her mouth, then as she gasped to regain her breath, the bard would come up to kiss her and work her up again with skilled fingers, somewhat calloused from playing the lute – which honestly just added positively to the sensations. Ciri wasn’t one to lie down and take it most days, but the bard, petite as she was, had a way of dominating the room, and the witcheress was none too eager to let that end so soon, thus she allowed it to go on and on.

            Never one to be a selfish partner, Ciri reached down between her own legs as Dea kissed her to move on with her routine for a fourth time, grabbing her wrist with a firm – but not too tight – hand, stopping her fingers from moving further.

            “Your turn,” she murmured, Dea’s teeth holding her lower lip mid-kiss. Her other hand quickly moved to Dea’s lower back, holding the smaller woman to her body and pushing them both up, Ciri on her knees at first and Dea at her mercy, moving around in bed until she had Dea’s bare back pressed against the headboard. For balance, Ciri brought one knee up and sat Dea down over her thigh to kiss her some more, an expert hand giving the bard’s backside a controlled smack, earning an amused yelp from her. Ciri could feel the bard’s wetness as she rode the witcheress’ thigh, moving her hips back and forth with the aid of Ciri’s hand on her lower back. Ciri’s own wetness, once pooled between her legs, was now dribbling down, surely helped by the moans Dea was producing with such enthusiasm it made her arch her neck back, accidentally hitting her head against the wall. A bout of laughter spurted from them both as they realized what had happened.

            “I’m fine,” Dea said before Ciri even asked the question, seeing the slightly worried look on the other’s face. “But maybe we should consider changing positions.”

            Agreeing to it, Ciri brought them both back down to bed, Dea’s body this time hitting only the soft surface of her mattress. The witcheress’ lips were soon on the other’s neck, kissing her tenderly. Ciri wasn’t always the softest of lovers, but knowing Dea had many presentations to make, she wouldn’t wish to mark her somewhere other people could easily see. Bards were already judged as lascivious – and in cases, such as Dandelion, rightly judged –, and Ciri wished to cause no harm to her reputation. Moving from her neck down to her breasts, Ciri appreciated the shape, feeling around them with her lips until she reached the center, sucking on a nipple while her hand massaged the other breast, fingers digging into the soft flesh, leaving marks on the skin that vanished seconds after Ciri’s fingers moved away. Dea’s stomach was bare for her, and Ciri took the opportunity to feel it. The other woman wasn’t muscular like the witcheress, on the contrary, her belly was soft, and the skin better cared for, with no scars to show. Ciri’s fingers traveled down, teasing a little around her navel before finally reaching the hairs between her legs, spreading her lips with two fingers and feeling once again how wet she was. Pressing those two fingers in, Ciri curled them upwards, feeling how Dea’s body reacted to her touches, her back arching away from the bed as Ciri rubbed her sweet spot.

            The inn above the tavern had other rooms for renting, and if anyone was inside, they could certainly hear their moaning and cursing, Dea begging Ciri for more as her fingers pushed in and out of her with wet sounds, always thrusting them back inside in an upwards angle, hitting the sweet spot that made Dea’s eyes roll back and her hips move to meet Ciri’s hand. Now with three fingers inside her, it didn’t take long for Dea’s toes to curl and her entire body tremble with pleasure as she tightened herself around Ciri, coming with a couple of gasps followed by a long moan, finally falling limp on the bed, her chest rising and falling, following her heavy breathing.

            Ciri wasn’t sure how that went on, and when trying to remember later on, all that came to mind was how she eventually collapsed, exhausted, feeling relaxed with the sound of Dea’s heartbeat, the bard’s breathing lulling Ciri to a deep sleep free from dreams. The inn was not the safest place to sleep, but Ciri’s instincts were good. If anyone came too close or threatened to get inside the locked door or windows, she would hear them before they succeeded, and be ready to fight. But no one did, and the pair slept soundly for the hours to come.


End file.
